WoW Story: To Be a Knight
by WritingZard
Summary: An aspiring soldier learns what it truly means to fight for his kingdom. Part 1 of a series of short stories involving my WoW OCs.


_Sometime before the Third War..._

Malles Mikkal, famed paladin of the Alliance, surveyed his battlefield.

A vast army of enemies lay before him. Thousands of the orcs, trolls, and ogres that comprised the unholy Horde forces rushed hellbent for his position. For he was the last of his men, the Silver Hand paladins of the Alliance. They had all been slain, every one. Now, he was the last hope the Alliance had to keep the Horde out of Lordaeron.

At their head rode Galgra Lightbane, their wicked death knight leader. She was the priority. Death knights were the antithesis of paladins, their polar opposites. Their touch alone could kill a man, they could summon great storms of wind, and raise their fallen enemies as undead soldiers. Galgra had all sorts of evil, powerful magicks at her disposal, all of them more than capable of countering anything Malles could throw at her.

The paladin smirked. It was all too easy.

A lumbering ogre-mage, twin heads grinning, lobbed a spell at him. Champion glowed as Malles batted the fireball out of the air. The warhammer, infused with the power of the Holy Light, had served Malles faithfully in more battles than the paladin could count. It would serve him again. Malles charged the creature, Champion raised over his head, and flattened the ogre's heads in two, mighty blows. The creature toppled backwards, defeated. Malles turned his attention back to Galgra.

She scowled at him, wordless, and raised her power rod. Dark energies spewed from the orb affixed to the top, empowering her forces. Malles was not worried. Once Galgra was dead, her army would scatter, as the craven Horde fled back through the Dark Portal. He rushed his enemy, and swung his hammer. Galgra blocked the blow deftly, gripped her rod in both hands, and attacked his knees. The rod smacked soundly against his right thigh. Malles cried out in pain.

Galgra cackled. Malles inspected his wound, and saw it festering with rot. He clasped a hand against it and, chanting words of Light, healed his leg in an instant. Emboldened, Malles renewed his assault.

Galgra was no slouch in close combat. They traded blows for several seconds. But, Malles was able to work through her guard. He feinted, angling his hammer as though to aim for her legs. When Galgra dropped her rod to block, Malles swung at her head. He was rewarded by a sharp clack as the weapon hit her skull.

Galgra fell backwards, dropping her rod. She fell on her rear, and brought a hand up to her head. She pulled it back, inspected it, and saw blood.

Then, she started screaming.

Panicking, Malles dropped his hammer. "Oh jeez, oh jeez, oh -"

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaahh!"

"- jeez." Malles knelt beside Galgra. "You okay, Jen?"

Jensine, now curled into a ball and holding her head in her hands, was ignoring him, and still screaming. Malles pulled his helmet-bucket off his head and grabbed at Jensine's hands. "Let me look!"

"What's goin' on, 'ere?"

"It's okay!" Malles turned to address the newcomer. It was a stranger, a giant of a man Malles had seen in the square before but did not know. He was one of the guards that patrolled through the city. All around the Lordaeron capital's square, people were turning and walking over to try help the child so obviously in distress. "We were playing, and -"

"I saw it!" a woman shouted. "That boy attacked 'er!"

"No, I -"

""Hit 'er with a stick, right in the noggin!"

All the while, Jensine's was screaming. The guard glared at Malles. "It's okay, she's my sister." Malles went back to trying to get Jen to move her hands. "Stop crying!"

The guard crossed his arms and scowled. A crowd was forming. "This true, boy?"

"No!" Malles looked down at Jensine's. "Well, yes, but -"

"He hit me!" Jensine shouted.

"Jen!"

The guard bent down. A gauntlet-clad hand grabbed Malles by top of his head, and pulled him up to a standing position. The guard roughly turned Malles around so they were facing each other. Malles felt cold steel press against his skull as the guard squeezed. The guard's right hand dropped to a blackjack at his hip.

"Don't like boys who 'it girls."

"She's my sister," Malles repeated.

"That supposed to make it better?"

Malles' felt his jaw clench. "Kind of."

"It don't." The guard drew a blackjack from his belt. Malles's eyes squeezed shut.

"Stand down, Topper."

Malles opened one eye, and saw his worst fears confirmed.

Behind the guard stood a black-haired, mustachioed man in plate armor, with a warhammer strapped to his back. He would have been unremarkable if spotted around town, just another soldier going about his business, were it not for the silvery, mithril gauntlet that enclosed his right hand. It was a mark of his station. This man was a paladin, one of the Knights of the Silver Hand.

He was also Malles' father.

Lord Carrick Brightfury reached out and clapped Topper on the shoulder. Gently, but firmly, he held the guard, silently eyeing him, until Topper returned his blackjack to its original place and let go of Malles. Carrick nodded. "Thank you, Topper. I'll take it from here."

"Of course, m'Lord." Topper McNab saluted the paladin, then turned to the crowd. "Alright, nothing to see here. Move along!"

As the crowd began slowly dispersing. Carrick gazed down at his son. Malles began counting his shoelaces. Jensine was now reduced to quietly crying. Carrick pointed to Malles' left. Malles obediently moved aside.

Carrick knelt beside his daughter. "Are you okay, Jensine?"

Jensine shook her head. "It hurts."

Carrick gave her a warm smile. Despite her recent trauma, Jensine smiled back. "Let's see if I can fix that," Carrick told her. Gently, he slipped his right hand under hers. Compared to Jensine's child hands, Carrick's was gigantic. When he spread his hand across her scalp, it threatened to engulf her entire head. Jensine closed her eyes.

Carrick started chanting. Words of a language lost to time poured forth from his lips, and his hand started to glow white. Jensine sighed as Carrick's holy, healing magicks washed over her. When Carrick pulled his hand away, all that remained of Jen's injury was some dried blood and small scar.

Carrick stood up. "Right, then. Let's go home." Carrick turned on his heel and started walking. Jensine walked in front of Malles and stuck her tongue out at him, rubbing her head as she followed their father. Knowing what was coming, Malles rushed ahead of her and fell in step with Carrick.

Father and children walked in silence all the way home. Carrick, not an ambitious or wealthy man, kept his family housed in a small, modest townhouse well away from the mansions of the nobles of Lordaeron. It was roomy enough, though, for his family. Carrick walked up the house's stoop. He opened the front door, and stepped aside to make room. "Jen," he said to his daughter, "could you go help your mother with supper?"

"Yes, Papa." Jensine elbowed past her brother and went into the house. Carrick shut the door behind her. Malles stayed at the foot of the stairs, avoiding his father's gaze. Carrick motioned at the stoop. Malles sat down, facing the street.

With the sound of metal grinding against metal, Carrick sat down beside him. He removed his gauntlets and laid them, gently, between father and son. They watched people walk by for several minutes, silently.

Finally, Carrick spoke. "I told you, you can't play that rough with your sister."

Malles said nothing. Carrick continued. "She is delicate. You can't -"

"How am I supposed to practice," Malles asked, "if I don't have a sparring partner?"

"Do not interrupt me." Carrick took a breath, then spoke again. "Your sister is nine. You are thirteen, soon to be fourteen. You can't just go at her with a stick, and expect not to hurt her."

Malles scowled at the street. "Again," Malles started. Carrick raised an eyebrow at him. Malles started over. "Dad, basic training starts two weeks from now. All the other cadets have been practicing since they were kids. Some of them had private tutors. I've had none of that. I need to practice if I want to be able to keep up with them."

"You've had ample opportunities to -"

"None of them would -"

Carrick silenced his son with a glare. Fuming, Malles kept his eyes on the street. Carrick continued, "You've had ample opportunities to spar with nobles of your age, and build. I set some of those up myself. Instead, you stayed home."

Malles snorted. "Peasants, Dad. You set up play dates. With peasants."

Carrick's mustache twitched. Like Malles, he glared out at the street. "You would have preferred a soft-skinned, pampered noble?"

"The nobles have training," Malles repeated.

"Yes," Carrick said, "but not the muscles to use it, and they complain all the while. Noble children spend half their time with quills in their hands, and books on their laps. They don't wake up at the crack of dawn to work the land until the sun goes down, and their very bones want to drop out of their arms. Nobles frown upon the blood and sweat and tears it takes for commoners to make a name of themselves, and lack the bodies that come from hard, honest work. Those nobles would have turned you aside with the disdain you gave the families to which I promised chances to improve their stations, while their children would have relished the chance to test themselves against the son of a paladin of the Silver Hand. Those play dates, as you called them, would have been akin to setting an orc upon you."

Malles snorted. "Sure."

"Malles. Look at me."

Malles turned to address him. He expected one of Carrick's trademark glares. To a veteran Horde warrior, Carrick's gaze would have sent them running for the hills they prowled. To Malles, Carrick was just his overbearing father.

Today, though, Carrick wasn't glaring. There was new look on his face. Malles couldn't quite place it. His face was mostly expressionless, but it was obvious that Carrick disapproved of Malles' attitude. And his words.

Oh. Carrick wasn't angry. Just disappointed.

And, yet...Malles, unruly, disobedient youth of thirteen, almost fourteen, found that he actually cared. Angry Carrick was an old enemy, always there and waiting for Malles to defy his wishes. Disappointed Carrick was new. Unfamiliar. Disappointed Carrick was, somehow, worse.

Disappointed Carrick said, "Do you want to be a paladin, Malles? A holy defender of Lordaeron? Guardian of all good people of the Alliance?"

There was a lump in Malles' throat. He swallowed it, and nodded.

"You never will be."

Shocked, Malles turned back to the street.

"Not if you can't bring yourself to care about the people you're supposed to be defending."

Malles looked back at his father. Carrick gestured out to the street. "Look, Malles. Actually look. Tell me what you see."

Malles obeyed. There wasn't much to see. Foot traffic was almost nonexistent, as the neighborhood settled down to their evening meals. But, Malles knew his neighbors. He started talking. "I see Widow Semproch's house, across the street. She's probably cooking that gods-awful stew of hers."

Carrick sniffed the air. "That, she is. What's the stew called?"

Malles shook his head. "I've never asked."

Carrick nodded again. "She calls it her murloc fin soup."

Malles snorted again. "It's a stew."

Carrick looked across the street at the widow's house. "Would you believe me if I told you she makes it exactly as it's intended to be made?"

"No."

Carrick chuckled. "It's true. It's her husband's recipe. And, by all accounts, he was an awful cook. Ms. Semproch did all the cooking for their family. Not out of any sense of wifely duties, mind you, but because she, rightfully, feared that Mr. Semproch would accidentally poison them both if he attempted anything more complicated than toast."

Malles stared. Carrick leaned towards him, covering his hand with his mouth as though he was sharing a secret. "And," he continued, "between you and me, Ms. Semproch feared that he'd somehow manage to kill himself doing just that."

Malles looked back at the house. "So what's with the stew?"

"It is the traditional dish of the Semproch family," Carrick said. "Mr. Semproch insisted on making it for his wife's birthday, every year. Every year, staring when he was courting her, he'd head out to Stone Cairn Lake and hunt himself a pair of murlocs, clean them, and take them home to cook. She ate his soup, every time, because he worked hard to make it for her, and she didn't want to hurt his feelings."

Malles chuckled. "You're making that up."

Carrick shook his head. "I am not. She told me that herself, a number of years ago, when your mom and I first moved into this house. Shortly after you were born, in fact."

Malles gave his father an accusing look. "I've never heard this story."

"Did you ever ask for it?"

After a moment, Malles went back to watching Widow Semproch's house. "No."

"I didn't think so."

They sat in silence for another moment. Then, something struck Malles. "There isn't a lake around here called Stone Cairn Lake."

Carrick shook his head. "No, there isn't."

"So," Malles continued, "you are lying."

Carrick shook his head, again. "No, I'm not."

"Then where is it?"

"Stormwind."

Malles blinked. "Widow Semproch is from Stormwind?"

"That's right," Carrick replied. "She came here, from there, as one of the refugees fleeing the Horde."

Malles looked at her house with renewed interest. "I didn't know that."

"Why not?"

"Because," Malles replied, "I never asked."

Carrick looked at him. "And, why was that?"

Malles shrugged. "I don't know."

"Can I hazard a guess?"

Malles nodded. Carrick said, "Because, to you, she was the doddering old lady with the gods-awful stew. Beneath you. Therefore, you didn't care to get to know her."

Malles said nothing. Carrick gave him a minute to process, before saying, "Maybe, before you leave, Malles, you should take a minute and speak with the good Widow Semproch. To learn about your neighbors, and their history. To get to know the people you will be putting your life on the line for."

Carrick got up to leave. Malles asked him, "How did he die?"

"Who?"

"Her husband. Mr. Semproch."

Carrick picked up his gauntlets. The mithril gauntlet sparkled in the summer sun. "Missing in action, presumed dead. He was a knight of Stormwind."

"Oh."

"Yes." Carrick walked up to the door. "When the Horde invaded their kingdom, he kissed her goodbye, went off to war, and never came back. Beyond that, Widow Semproch has no idea what happened to him."

Malles stood up. "That's…"

Carrick paused. But, Malles never finished his thought. Shrugging, Carrick opened the door to their home. "Oh, Malles. One more thing."

Malles looked up at his father. Carrick looked down at his son.

"Stop beating up your sister. She's the only one you'll ever have."

With that, Carrick stepped through the doorway. Malles followed him, and closed the door behind them.


End file.
